The dark side of my soul (21 page)

Sandra returned to her chair and placed a mug of milky tea on the table in front of her. She put her hands on either side of the mug as though to warm them although the temperature in the room was not cold.

She regarded me with stern, hostile eyes. “David and Julie have the same kitchen furniture as we have, although their kitchen is much bigger and they have a lot more units and fancy bits. Do you remember that we liked theirs and got ours afterwards in the sale? I think we got ours for a fraction of what David and Margaret paid and they were really pissed off.”

I couldn’t see where this was going but I waited patiently as Sandra reflected on her memories. After a short delay she pressed on. “Well Julie and I sat at the table in their kitchen, same colour scheme, same furniture, just like we are here and we had a nice little chat, a heart to heart so to speak, but when we got around to last night she sort of clammed up on me. I wonder why.”

Sandra picked up her drink and sipped it before returning it to the table but the warmth of the liquid did not melt the ice in her eyes. “At first Julie wouldn’t say anything but when I pulled the gun on her she began to talk.”

“You…… you took the gun,” I said in amazement. “Why?”

“I thought it might be necessary to get her to talk and it was. It’s surprising how people will open up when looking down the barrel of a gun. Although she didn’t at first, but the bullet whizzing by her ear and smashing into the kitchen unit behind her sort of changed her mind. I think that really frightened her and after that she poured it out. She started jabbering and everything came out. In fact she couldn’t tell me fast enough.”

Sandra paused for some while and I had to encourage her to continue. “Then what happened?”

“I shot her,” she spoke in a matter of fact tone.

“What? For God’s sake you’ve got to be joking.”

“No I’m quite serious.” Sandra’s eyes were as frosty as frozen lakes although somewhere in those icy pools I thought I detected a hint of sorrow. “You would have been proud of me. One bullet, one shot was all I needed. I admit it was pretty much point blank range but I hit her right here.” She pointed to the centre of her forehead, “right between the eyes. Not bad for someone who hasn’t used a gun before. You told me once that killing with a gun was easy. It’s not like you have to plunge a knife into a body or hit someone with a hammer, you said, all you have to do is pull a little lever, the trigger, and boom, the gun does the rest. You were right, it was easy. Your precious Julie fell backwards onto the floor with the chair between her legs and her brains spread all over the kitchen. She doesn’t look so attractive now.”

I couldn’t speak. I opened my mouth and closed it again without making a sound. My mind would not, could not, comprehend what she was telling me. Sandra, once so quiet, so nervous, so meek and mild had turned into a cold blooded killer.

At last when I was able to summon up enough saliva to get the words out I asked. “What have you done with the gun? Have you put it back in the clock?”

“No, I left it on the table.”

“What? How could you forget it?” I was incredulous.

“Oh I didn’t forget it. I left it on the table on purpose.” Sandra turned to her bag. It was scarcely larger than a purse, a clutch bag I think they call them, on a long shoulder strap. She opened it and withdrew a pair of gossamer thin, transparent, disposable, kitchen gloves, the kind that are used for food preparation and handling. “I used these,” she said, “so that I didn’t leave any finger prints on the pistol. I don’t believe you were so careful. Your prints are all over the gun.”

It took several seconds for what she was saying to sink in to my befuddled brain.

Sandra continued grimly, “When the police find that Julie has been shot with the same weapon that was used in the other recent murders, and they find the gun with your prints all over it and her body with your semen inside her, I don’t think it will take them long to work out the truth do you?”

I watched her, uncomprehending. “Why are you doing this to me?”

“Isn’t it obvious? You were unfaithful. You betrayed me. After everything I have done for you. I saved your sorry arse more than once. If it were not for me you would not be a free man now. And how do you repay me? You go behind my back and have an affair with that stupid bitch.”

“It wasn’t an affair.”

“Oh no, I forgot it was just sex. I suppose that doesn’t count.” She spat out the words with malice, then with a cruel grimace she said, “On the way to Julie’s this morning I called in at Tesco’s and picked up one of those cheap pay as you go mobile phones. I used it on the way home a little while ago to call the police. I told them that I heard what sounded like gunfire in David’s house as I drove by. They may not respond. They may think it is just some crazy woman calling but on the other hand they may take it seriously. What do you think Harry? How long do you think it will be before they check it out?

You see, what I’m saying is that you may have time to go and retrieve the gun. If you could get it back you still may be able to get away with it. Of course you’ll still have a lot of explaining to do but I’m sure you’ll think of something. I guess it’s up to you.”

She fished in her bag, pulled out the car keys and threw them on the table. We sat in silence looking at each other, two different people. Two strangers. Without a word I reached forward and took the keys. There wasn’t much time.

Nineteen

I drove faster than David. I drove like a maniac through the country lanes. I took the bends too fast, once missing an oncoming bus by mere inches, the screech of its brakes and sound of its horn loud in my ears. On another curve I lost control of the car completely and almost skidded off the road and into a ditch, on another I almost hit a cyclist. My heart was pounding as though it was trying to escape the confines of my body.

I had to get to Julie’s house before the police. There was a good chance that they had not yet responded to Sandra’s call, indeed they may not respond at all. The police were short of man power. They must get numerous calls from crazy people, some of the calls, the ones that seemed genuine, would be investigated immediately but some would go on the back burner and be investigated only when time allowed. Others would not be followed up. I had to hope that my wife’s call would fall into the last category.

The car almost skidded off the road once more but I was almost there and as I swung around the final curve I was relieved to see no police presence outside Julie’s bungalow. I raced onto the driveway and came to a screeching halt right outside the front door. After switching off the engine I got out of the car and it was only then that I realised that I had no means of entry.

I was nursing a forlorn hope that Sandra had been lying about shooting Julie; that she had just been trying to upset me because I had been unfaithful. I ran to the door, pressed the bell push and heard the chimes sound inside the house. I prayed that Julie would open the door with a big smile on her face and say, “hey, so soon, back for more?” But it didn’t happen that way.

Pressing the bell, leaving my finger on it, I could hear the chimes ringing; a cacophony of sound but it wasn’t enough to wake the dead. I removed my finger from the button and waited until the sound from inside died away. Silence was all that remained, a kind of sombre, mocking silence and my heart sunk as I realised that Sandra had been telling the truth about the shooting.

The door was a solid slab of old English oak and I knew that I had no chance of busting it down, nor did I have any hope of picking the lock. I stepped back and studied the windows but the top quality double glazed units were all firmly closed. My best way of gaining entry was to go around the back of the property.

I went to the high wooden gate that led to the sideway, the one that had been jammed open with the gnome on the day of the funeral. Today, however, it was closed. There was only a latch on the outside of the gate but when I tried to open it the damn thing wouldn’t budge and I guessed it must be bolted from the other side. I would have to climb over.

Putting my hands on top of the rough wood I tried pulling myself up but I was very unfit, I had not worked out for years and I couldn’t get my feet more than half way up. Perspiring heavily I tried again and this time with a great effort managed to get one foot on the metal latch and then force my body onto the top of the gate. I rested a moment before swinging my legs over the top and dropping to the ground. The height was more than I realised and on hitting the concrete path I twisted my right ankle and fell. The pain was excruciating but I could not let it stop me, so I struggled to my feet by holding on to the wooden fence at the side of the bungalow and hobbled along the path to the rear of the property.

When the back garden came into sight I discovered that the marquee and portable toilets had been removed and the garden had been restored to its previous splendour. The extensive lawn, green and freshly watered, was bordered by the well-kept flower beds, all in magnificent condition, but I had no time to stop and admire them.

I limped around the large conservatory that was attached to the rear of the bungalow until I came to the glass door. When I tried to open it I was disappointed to find that it too was locked.

The higher and lower glass panels of the door were divided by a wide central plastic strip. I looked around for something with which I could break the lower panel and saw the foot high painted concrete garden gnome that had propped open the gate on the day of David’s funeral. It was standing on a low brick wall that edged the patio around the conservatory and seemed to be watching me with a look of mild contempt. I stepped across and picked it up by its chipped sinister smiling face. It felt satisfactorily heavy so I crossed to the door with it in my hands and with some force swung the little concrete guy at the lower panel of the glass door.

The heavy garden ornament smashed through the double glazing, its weight pulling my hands with it and into a shard of glass that remained in the door. The piece of glass stuck in the back of my left hand and I winced with pain but undeterred I cleared the rest of the broken fragments from the panel with the gnome.

Shattered glass was strewn on both sides of the door mixed with the blood that was dripping from my injury. I put down the gnome and pulled out the sliver of glass from the back of my left hand only to make matters worse by cutting my fingers in the process. The damn gnome looked up at me with amusement and at that moment I could have sworn the little bastard was alive.

Breaking and entering was most certainly not my forte. DNA tests would confirm that it was my blood on the floor, another thing that I would have to explain later but for now my priority was to retrieve the gun.

Ignoring the disapproving gnome I crawled through the broken door, picking up more cuts in my hands on the way. When clear, I stood up and went to the door that led from the conservatory to the bungalow and was relieved to find that this one was not locked.

On entering the main building the first room I came to was the formal dining room. This is where David kept his collection of art. The walls were full of paintings, copies of the old masters placed alongside originals of some lesser known artists. The furniture was solid oak. A massive dining table was surrounded by ten ornately carved chairs, old fashioned, possibly Regency, very expensive, but I did not have time to delay and admire the surroundings and I moved on into the next room.

This was a less formal dining area with more modern furnishings and abstract art on the walls. It was here, when Margaret, David’s first wife was alive, that we had spent many enjoyable evenings, playing cards, telling stories or just chatting until the early hours. Those memories now seemed a lifetime away. A door ahead of me led to the hallway and the front of the house and one to my left, that was partly ajar, led to the spacious kitchen.

It was towards this opening that I stepped with trepidation, holding my breath and hoping that Sandra had not really shot Julie in the way she had described, but when I peered into the room, even though I was partly prepared, the scene that I witnessed filled me with horror.

Julie was sitting upright on the floor behind the table with her back against the lower units, a chair jammed between her legs and a bloody hole in the middle of her forehead. Her open expressionless eyes bore no semblance of life but a look of surprise and fear was frozen on her face and her white nightdress was covered in blood. Blood and gore was also spread generously over the wall behind her, the worktops and the units against which her inert body rested. On the work surface above her head a piece of grey matter from her brain sat in a neat pile as though waiting to be prepared by a chef from hell for some ghoulish dish.

The contents of one of the wall units littered the floor where Sandra’s first warning shot had splintered the door, springing it open to allow the pots, pans and crockery to come crashing out. The door itself was hanging at an impossible angle on one hinge. The noise of the gunshot and the ensuing mayhem must have been tremendous and I was not surprised that Julie had started talking so willingly. Amongst the chaos, just as Sandra had said it would be, I spotted my prize. In the centre of the table sat the gun.

Nothing could be done for Julie, so I focused on the pistol. I moved into the room, retrieved the weapon and left the scene as quickly as possible.

There was no point in leaving the property the way I had entered. It was much better to exit by the front so I ran along the hallway, the gun in my bloody left hand, to the front door. After releasing the security lock I stepped out into the welcoming fresh air and the smell of death from inside the house was replaced by a sweet country fragrance which I breathed in luxuriously as the door closed behind me.

That’s when the police vehicle arrived. A squad car squealed to a stop in the road outside the house and the uniformed officer in the passenger seat leaped out. The driver was already on the radio, no doubt calling for back-up. The officer outside the car had seen me and noticed the gun in my blood soaked hand. He advanced no closer but called out in an attempt to take control of the situation. I could see that he was young and nervous but he tried to make his voice sound deep and imposing.

“Put down the gun sir. Put it on the floor and step away.”

I had only a short while to decide what to do. My next action would determine the course of the rest of my life. I could shoot the officer and possibly the driver as well but the chances of hitting them at this range were minimal and I would be a hunted man and almost certainly caught within hours, besides, these were good men who probably had young families. They were not the same as the scumbags I had shot before.

“Put down the gun and step away.” The officer’s voice sounded less confident.

I could point the weapon at my own head and end it all here and now but that takes courage and I was not brave enough to do it. The only other alternative was to surrender and hope that I could find a lawyer good enough to put the case that in each killing I was acting in self-defence.

“Put the gun down.” The policeman was trying to sound more authoritative but failing miserably in his efforts. He came no closer and I never moved. It was a standoff.

This was the last time that I felt the superiority that the gun gave me, my last moment of ultimate control. I was tempted to fire off a couple of shots into the air as a final act of defiance but I did not want to scare the young man anymore and the action may go against me in court, nevertheless I could not resist lifting the pistol and aiming it towards the officer.

I smiled as I watched the colour drain from his face but then slowly, with a tinge of sadness and regret, I bent down and did as he requested. I placed the gun on the floor and stepped back. It was over.